JACK FROST.
Hail, Snow! not the white head at Snow and Paul's,
But speaking city-wise, that oddity
Which rises higher as the more it falls,
A paradoxial commodity.
The schoolboy's long expected an-nu-al;—
Abandon'd now are wicket, bat, and ball;
Gradus, degraded—manual, underfoot—
Rebate, at discount—routed, cubic-root.
The pelted village idol, by the way,
With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate,
To make a parson swear, or poacher pray,
Or frighten some old woman passing late.
Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner,
On plans of pauper diet deep intent,
May start and think of some white-haired petitioner,
Turned out to starve by act of parliament.
But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry?
Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry.
12 Lavater d. 1801.
"I think I've seen your face before."
"WERRY LIKE."
26 Botany Bay colonized, 1788.
Rejoice and praise, in merry lays,
The wisdom of the wigs,
Which kindly found, on classic ground,
A paradise for prigs.
Assembled there, in talent rare,
Each knave salutes a brother,
And friendly yet, their wit they whet,
By practice on each other.
31 Young Pretender d. 1788. N.B. Race not extinct.
MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER.
By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat.
My dancing days are over now,
My legs are just like stumps;
My fount of youth dried up, alas!
Wont answer to the pumps,
Yet who so fond of jigs as I?
Of hornpipes such a lover?
Of gallops, valses,—but, alas!
My dancing days are over.
In feats of feet, what foot like mine
(Excuse me if vain-glorious:)
Like mine for grace and dignity
No toe was more notorious.
Oh! then what joy it was to hear
Roy's Wife or Kitty Clover!
But Drops of Brandy now won't do:
My dancing days are over.
My feet seem fastened down with screws,
That were so glib before;
And my ten light fantastic toes
Seem toe'-nailed to the floor.
I cannot bear a ball room now,
Where once I lived in clover;
Terpsichore quite made me sick;
My dancing days are over.
I used to dance the New Year in,
And dance the Old Year out;
Ah! little did I then reflect
That chacun à son gout,
All summer thro' I skipped and hopped,
At Margate, Ramsgate, Dover.
The year was then one spring—but now
My dancing days are over.
I'm eighteen stone and some odd pounds:
So all my neighbours say.
I'll go this moment to the scale;
But I can't balancez.
When in a ball room I appear,
As soon as they discover
My presence, off the girls all fly,
My dancing days are over.
I'm quite as fat as Lambert was,
Or any old maid's spaniel;
And when I walk along the street
They cry, "A second Daniel!"
And if I go into a shop
Of tailor, hatter, glover,
They always open both the doors:
My dancing days are over.
My college chums oft jeer at me,
And cry, "Lord, what a porpus!
Who'd take you for a Johnian?
You seem to be of Corpus!"
The stage-coachmen all look as if
They wished me at Hanóver:
The safety cabs don't think me safe:
My dancing days are over.
My great pier glass, that used to show
My waist so fine and thin;
Now, turn whichever way I will,
Won't take my body in.
My form, that once a parasol
Would always amply cover,
A gig umbrella now requires:
My dancing days are over.
In vain my hand I offer now;
Away each damsel stalks;
Chalk'd floors no longer may I walk,
So I must walk my chalks.
For me there is no woman-kind:
None wait me now for lover.
Maid, widow, wife, all fly—they know
My dancing days are over!